Witch of The Burren

Connor KilCormac staggered blindly through the thick tangle of vines under the canopy of trees as darkness fell and his life leaked out of him in great, red drops. The clash of iron rang in his ears and the stench of death was strong in his nostrils. His blood-matted hair hung in his blue eyes and his breath blasted from his open mouth in clouds of steam. Connor's strong right arm hacked at the vines and bramble with a bent and battered sword. His left hand was clamped against his throat and thick rivers of blood seeped out between his long fingers. From time to time the arrow that jutted from his broad chest would catch in the vines and send new shocks of pain through him.

At the base of a scorched and crooked tree, Connor stopped to listen for sounds of pursuit. He heard none, nor had he expected any. He could still see the laughing face of the Roman Centurion. He could still hear the jeers of the Legion as they parted to let him pass.

The Romans had begun to press deeper and deeper into the Emerald Isle on their frequent raids. Connor had rallied his kinsmen and the warriors of several neighboring clans to meet the legion's advance at Killaloe. They had been stunned by the number of Romans in their leather armor and confused by their military maneuvers. Still, the fur clad Celts had fallen on the Legion with screams to wake the dead.

Despite the hopeless odds, the battle had raged from dawn until the blood red sun began to sink behind the hills of Clare. Connor had been slashed with a hundred cuts and his neck laid open by the lunge of a Roman piker. Still he would not fall. With one hand stanching the flow of blood from his throat, Connor had fought on until the Roman corpses around him were piled up to his knees. Near blinded by blood and smoke, Connor slashed at anything that came near.

Soon the sounds of battle fell still around him and nothing seemed to move. Connor risked a moment to wipe the blood from his eyes with his sword arm and saw that he was alone. There was not another Celt standing. The Romans encircled him at a safe distance and dozens trained arrows on him. Connor saw the dead faces of his brothers and cousins staring blankly skyward into the lightly falling snow. His great heart broke.

"Bastards! Will no one fight me?" he cried.

The Romans made no move.

"Cowards! Will no one send me to my kinsmen in honorable death?"

Still no move from the circle of iron that surrounded him. Connor began to hack at the pile of bodies around him.

"Do the best of you lie before me? Are the rest only fit for the sack of helpless villages and the rape of little boys?"

An arrow flew from the circle and buried itself in Connor's chest, but the huge Irishman did not fall. Several others began to draw back their bowstrings when a voice called out "Cease Firing!"

A tall Centurion stepped to the front of the circle and ordered the Legion to withdraw. The soldiers began to move away. Tears mingled with the blood on Connor's face.

"Will no one face me? Will no one grant me death?"

"Creature," laughed the Centurion, "You are already dead." And then they were gone.

The snow was swirling around him now, as Connor pushed away from the gnarled tree. He plodded forward, no destination in mind, knowing only that if he stopped he would die. Darkness, blood and snow so clouded his eyes that he walked blindly. His exhaustion was complete. His mind cried out for him to stop, to rest, to sleep. But Connor knew that if he slept he would never wake. And then he saw the fire.

At first it seemed a firefly, dancing amid the snowflakes. As he drew closer he saw that it was a bonfire roaring before a tiny cottage. Embers flew upward and mingled with the snowfall, filling the sky with sparkle. He could hear it hiss and pop. He reached the clearing where the cottage stood and staggered into the open. A last clever vine tripped him and he fell forward, driving the arrow deeper into his chest. With the last of his strength he lifted his face to the fire and he saw the woman. Dancing.

She was a slender woman, past the age of youth, but firm of leg and bosom, and though she was naked, she did not seem to feel the cold. Her skin was as white as the swirling snow and the gleam of her perspiration made her seem to glow in the firelight. Connor could see her bright blue eyes flashing. Her full red lips were drawn into a smile of exertion and abandon. As she capered around the flames she tossed and whipped her long, red hair around her. Her full, firm breasts jutted out and up as she sucked life into her lungs. A thick thatch of red curls nestled between her muscled thighs and drops of sweat and snow glistened in it like diamonds in red satin.

Connor opened his mouth to call out to her, but no sound came forth. Still, she turned and looked. She seemed un-surprised to see him. She walked to him, making no attempt to cover her nakedness. When she reached him she squatted before him, her legs apart, her elbows on her knees. She studied him, tilting her head from side to side like a curious pup. With one graceful hand she smoothed his matted hair away from his face.

"Are you the one?" she asked.

Her voice was like music. Connor remembered the legends the longboatmen had told, of the Choosers of the Slain, the warrior women who took the valiant to their rest. "Yes," he said, and then all was blackness.

Although Connor was twice her size, she lifted him into her arms and carried him into the cottage. The fire in the clearing faded to embers as she passed. Once inside, she stripped him of his blood-soaked clothes and laid him on a straw mat in front of the hearth. She extended the smallest finger of her left hand and touched the log inside. In seconds, there was a roaring fire. She turned to Connor and with a firm but gentle pull, tore the arrow from his broad chest. Then, starting at his head, glided her hands over every inch of his skin, taking stock of each of his injuries. As her fingers touched each one a tight grimace would tug at her face, as if she was feeling each little hurt. Her parted lips let out a gasp as she brushed his manhood. Though soft in sleep, it lay well across his thigh, and his balls, the size of duck eggs, slung low between his long legs.

Connor was a giant of a man, with broad shoulders and a deep chest. His arms were heavy and deeply corded from years of swinging sword and axe. His stomach was flat and hard as the earth and his taut buttocks rested above iron-hard legs.

The woman touched each part of him, and a sad smile of longing came across her lovely face. Her breath came in soft gasps, and her large nipples burned red as spring—ripe rosebuds. Her delicate hands cupped her bare breasts and her eyes closed. She seemed to draw her thoughts down into her heart and she squeezed her breasts together as if to hold them in. Then she set to work.

She took a jar of thick, pungent oil from the mantle and set it by the fire to warm. The water in the kettle was steaming now and she wet a cloth and cleaned the blood and grime from Connor's body. His breath barely caused his chest to rise and his skin had the pallor of death. He flinched not once as the hot water touched him, and steam rose from his body as from a quenched fire.

When he was clean, the woman took the jar of oil from the fire. She took two fingers of her right hand and dipped them into the oil. With her oily fingers she traced an arcane symbol on her forehead, speaking softly in a tongue unknown to men. She then moved her hand to her chest and traced another symbol above her heart. Then her fingers moved down her belly to the soft cleft between her legs. She slid her two oiled fingers between the soft folds of her sex and began to rock to and fro.

After a few moments, she withdrew her slick fingers and began to rub the blend of oil and woman's juices into each of Connor's wounds. The wounds were many, and she worked with care. Once she had anointed each of his wounds she poured oil into her hand and began to smear it across her breasts and belly. When her body was wet and glistening she threw herself on Connor, gripping his hair tightly in both hands. She pressed her mouth to his and breathed into him. Her hips rose and fell as she rubbed her oiled pelvis into his groin. And, though his member was still soft in his unconsciousness, she took care that he did not enter her. Connor's body began to twitch and buck. His fingers clawed into the straw mat and every muscle of his hard body tightened. His breath came in deep gasps and his skin began to glow like the lights of the northern skies. Then the woman reared up, clamped her thighs tight, raised her hands to the heavens and let out a long wail. It seemed to pour out from her soul, and pull the last of the strength from her body. She fell beside Connor and slept, a smile of contented exhaustion on her lips.

The morning sun found a thick blanket of snow covering the land. The woman of the cottage was up and at her work. A pot of thin broth was steaming in the cauldron above the fire. A fresh baked loaf was cooling on the sill. Connor slept.

The woman was dressed in a skirt and vest of softest leather. She wore no blouse beneath the vest and her breasts bounced playfully, a nipple peeking out when she would lift her arm. Her feet were bare and her flaming hair was tied in a thick ponytail that hung to her tapered waist.

She gave the pot a last stir, then knelt beside her sleeping giant. She sighed as she looked at his beautiful, naked body. His tan skin was without mark. It showed no sign of the abuses it had suffered the day before. His thick, long neck was without scar and the broad table of his chest bore no hint of violation. She smiled at her handiwork.

Her eyes again drifted to his member, resting on the soft pillow of hair below his hard belly. She reached out slowly and stroked its length. It stirred beneath her touch. She cupped his large sac in her warm hand and, after stealing a guilty glance around, leaned forward and placed a hot kiss on the head of his organ. At her tender touches it began to grow hard. She gripped it in her small hand, her fingers barely meeting as they wrapped around his thickness. She began to pull and stroke him, stretching his skin up to the head, then, tugging it back down. With each stroke he grew longer and harder. She wrapped both hands around it, so that only the swollen, purple arrowhead showed. She stretched her lips wide to surround it and her pink tongue licked and teased. A low groan rumbled from Connor's chest.

She again cupped his balls with one hand and the other slid down to the base of his shaft and held his proud erection tall. She engulfed him, sliding her wet lips down his length until she felt him at the back of her throat. Her head bobbed up and slowly down. She nipped at him playfully with her teeth, and her tongue teased with the hole at the tip of his long rod.

She sucked and licked him like a child with her favorite candy until she felt his swollen balls draw tight. He was as hard as a lance and the head of his cock fairly burned. She took him deep into her mouth and gripped him tight with her lips. She gave his shaft one last stroke and he blasted a hot jet of cum that drenched the back of her throat. She gulped it quickly down and pulled her head away to watch the next of his spurts shoot high into the air and fall back to spatter his chest. Then she mouthed him again, milking him with her fingers, and drank every drop she could coax from him.

When she had drained him dry, she licked each precious drop from his chest, smacking her lips. She took a damp cloth and cleaned him, then drew a warm, woolen blanket over his naked, sleeping form.

She stood and walked to the window. She stared out at the snow. A single tear broke from her eye to glide down her smooth cheek. Then she collapsed to the floor, hugged her knees to her chest, and began to quietly weep. At the sound of her weeping, Connor awoke with a start. His fists clenched and his arms began to flail about. A deep growl rumbled in his chest. He thrashed about on the straw mat, lashing out at the dreams that assailed him. The woman threw herself on him and, despite his great strength, she held him down on the mat. Awareness returned quickly to Connor, and he became still. He gazed up at the lovely face above him and asked the obvious question.

"Mairead", she answered, and shyly lowered her eyes.

"How long have I been here, Red?"

"You came to me last evening, Connor"

"You know me?"

"I was told you would come."

"Who told you?"

"The wind."

He laughed, and rolled her easily off of him got to his feet. He looked down at her and saw her beauty exposed, her vest having fallen open. He was about to remark on them when he realized he was naked.

"Where are my clothes?"

"I burned them."

"You are the brazen one, aren't you?"

"They were ruined with blood."

It hit him then, the events of the day before, his condition when he came to her. He staggered backwards until the wall stopped him, then slid to the floor, his hands roaming over his body.

"But how....?"

"You were near death when I found you. I fought the Goddess for your soul."

"You are a witch, then?"

"I am a priestess of the earth."

He spat. "Tree worshipers."

"I worship the Earth Mother and her consort, the Sky Father. Would you had rather I left you as you were?"

"But it is... evil."

"Evil to let you live? To give you the strength to fight your enemies? The strength to drive the idol worshipers from our shores?"

She turned to a low chest and drew from it a Roman short-sword. She threw it at him and it stuck in the floor between his legs, just inches from his manhood.

"If I am evil then be rid of me. If not, have some soup."

She turned her back to him and began to ladle broth into two wooden bowls which she placed on the table. Connor took the sword and he rose. He stepped to her unprotected back.

"Brave man", she said.

He faltered. He stood staring at her red curls and the small of her back. He watched her rump as she moved around the table.

"Eat it before it gets cold", she said.

He did.

He stayed with her a week. She did not give him clothes, and his nakedness trapped him in the hut. She was free with her body as well, wearing clothes only when the mood suited her. Connor was often embarrassed by his large erection springing up unbidden when they would talk or when his body would brush against hers as they moved around the small cottage. Mairead showed no interest in the carnal aspects of their nude bodies and Connor tried to respect her reserve. But there was something so charming about her casual lewdness and the matter-of—fact way she went about her chores that Connor quickly found his heart warming towards the little witch. On the eighth day, however, his resolve failed him.

Connor was sitting by the fire when Mairead moved to place a jar on the mantle above his head. Her succulent breasts were just inches from his mouth. He could smell her skin and her woman's juices. He rose from the stool and crushed her in his arms. Her body was electric against his skin and his swollen member pressed hard against her belly.

He gazed down into the depth of her eyes and then, overwhelmed, took her face in his huge hands and covered her mouth with hot kisses. She clung to him like a vine to a tree. Her hot tongue darted into his mouth and flicked and teased at his lips. He scooped her easily into his arms and carried her to the bed, he lay her gently down and his mouth found her rosebud nipples. He bit and sucked and nuzzled until she began to pant like a runner. His kisses then moved down her soft belly to the thick, red thatch between her thighs. She spread her legs wide and her moist nether-lips opened like a flower greeting the dawn. He licked at her until her passion flower became engorged. Then he plunged his tongue into her then drew back in surprise as it pressed against her maidenhead. He smiled. He slid his arms under her legs and pushed her knees up to her ears. The purpled hear of his enormous cock thrust toward her wet slit.

"No," she screamed.

"Now, darlin', don't be afraid."

"No, you mustn't"

Mairead locked her ankles behind his head and rolled sharply off of the bed. Connor was driven headfirst into the hard floor.

"What! Are you mad, woman?" Connor choked out as he untangled himself from her shapely legs. She fell beside him and kissed his bruised forehead.

"Oh, Connor, my heart is yours. But I am a priestess. My maidenhead, like my vows, must never be broken."

"Never?" he asked, his eyes wide.

"Connor, there are a world of ways that I can pleasure you. Ways no other woman can. But you must never enter me."

"Never?"

"My love, the Goddess is the source of my power. Without her I would be just an ordinary woman."

"There is nothing ordinary about you, Mairead. Goddess or no."

"You must promise me, Connor. I will deny you nothing else. But you must promise me. My covenant with the Goddess must remain unbroken."

"I love you, Mairead."

"Promise me!"

"I do."

She threw herself on him and kissed him long and hard. Her hand found his cock, which had grown soft in his disappointment It quickly grew hard again under her attentions. She lifted her hand toward the mantle and a jar of oil moved into her hand. She pushed Connor down on his back and straddled him. She coated his cock with the fragrant oil then dipped two fingers into the jar again. She then slid one, then both of them into her tight, puckered bung.

"No" Connor gasped, "I'm too big. I'll hurt you."

"I've suffered pain for you already, love, and likely will again. But this is pleasure, or so I've heard."

She lowered herself onto his rigid shaft. Tears welled in her eyes. His large cock-head struggled to penetrate her, then burst inside and plunged deep. She screamed his name. Her nails dug red grooves into the table of his chest and began to raise and lower her beautiful, round ass. She was tighter than any woman Connor had ever known, tighter even than his fist. No woman had ever surrendered herself to him this way. All chance of endurance gone, he shot his hot load deep into her. She smiled as if she had just received grace. She lowered herself onto him and began to kiss the deep scratches she had left on his broad chest. The scratches faded under her kisses. She lay her head on his chest and fell asleep, feeling his cock slowly soften within her.

Morning found them asleep in each other's arms. But as the sun peeked over the window sill, Connor came instantly awake. He narrowed his eyes and his senses ranged outward like ripples in a still pond. He heard the birds at their morning work. He heard the rush of the wind in the branches. He heard the creak of leather armor and the slap of sandals on the earth.

He rolled Mairead off of him and, taking the sword from the chest, slipped silently into the morning mist. The wind carried the scent of leather and sweat to his flared nostrils. He glided into the trees and no twig betrayed his passing. He had moved a quarter mile into the woods when he spotted the Roman scouting party. There were four men, moving single file. Connor crept up behind them, matching his footsteps to theirs. He stole close to the last man and just before he would have felt the Celtic giant's breath upon his neck, the Roman felt his head separate from his body. From where it fell in the mud it lived just long enough to see its three companions cut down like wheat at the harvest. Connor stood above the corpses, rage in his heart, wishing the fight had lasted longer. Then he heard Mairead scream.

Rage turned to panic as he raced through the woods back towards the cabin. When he burst into the clearing he saw a scene from a nightmare. Three Roman soldiers lay lifeless on the ground with smoke issuing from their empty eye sockets. A fourth sat on the ground, babbling like an infant and stabbing himself repeatedly in the groin. It took Connor only a second to grant him a merciful death. The sight that greeted him when he slipped into the cabin was even more horrible.